Draconis Genesis: The Dawn of Magic

Aria's world grew larger with each unsteady step she took, and Drakaryn, whether he admitted it or not, found himself watching her more intently. At first, her newfound mobility was little more than a clumsy shuffle—a swaying, unbalanced rhythm that resembled a hatchling learning to spread its wings. But unlike dragons, who burst forth with speed and strength from the moment they could stand, Aria's progress was measured and deliberate. There was no fire behind her movements, no primal need to dominate or survive. Instead, there was curiosity—a persistent, tireless drive to explore.

It was this curiosity that kept Drakaryn tethered, his thoughts drawn further into her fragile little world. Through her eyes, he saw the details of her home more clearly now: the polished wooden floor underfoot, each plank fitted seamlessly to the next; the beams overhead, darkened with age; and the flicker of torchlight against the walls in the dim evening hours. This was no cave carved by nature or claw. It was deliberate, intentional. Humans—Aria's kind—were builders, and that revelation still gnawed at him.

Drakaryn watched her toddle through the rooms with a determined sort of grace, her arms outstretched for balance, her bare feet pattering against the wooden boards. The instructors—the ones she called "Mama" and "Papa," their melodic voices having revealed themselves—hovered close at first, always ready to steady her or scoop her into their arms when she fell. But as the days stretched on, they began to give her more freedom. They trusted her strength, weak as it still was.

Foolish, Drakaryn thought the first time she fell hard, her small frame hitting the ground with an audible thump. Yet she only blinked, wide-eyed, as if startled, before pushing herself up again with a small grunt of determination. That strange spark of persistence flared in her once more, and for reasons he could not explain, Drakaryn felt himself grudgingly impressed.

Aria's explorations began to take her farther afield. Her small world expanded beyond the immediate room that had once been her domain. Drakaryn watched as she toddled from space to space—through wide archways into halls lined with thick rugs, where her tiny feet sank into softness; past tables and chairs that seemed monstrously large from her perspective; and into rooms filled with curious objects. Vases of painted porcelain sat atop sideboards, and long curtains of velvet draped over windows, casting colored light onto the floors when the sun peeked through.

But it was the banister that caught her attention.

Drakaryn noticed her pause as she approached it, her hands reaching out to grasp the smooth wooden railings. She peered through the narrow gaps, her wide eyes fixating on the world below. From this vantage point, the floor beneath looked impossibly far away. The shadows danced from the torches on the lower level, and voices from somewhere distant echoed faintly against the walls.

Aria's hands gripped the railing tightly as she shuffled along, her small fingers wrapping around the wood for balance. Her steps were cautious, uneven, but filled with purpose. Drakaryn, tethered to her gaze, felt a strange unease settle over him.

What is she doing?

She was too small, too fragile, to be so close to something that could clearly end poorly. The gap in the railings grew wider at the edge of the staircase, where the first step began its descent. Aria's curiosity propelled her forward, oblivious to the yawning drop before her.

Drakaryn tensed.

Her little hands let go of the banister for just a moment, and then—

The floor beneath her feet disappeared.

She teetered on the edge, her balance failing her as the first step came too soon, her weight tipping forward. For a breathless moment, everything seemed to freeze. Drakaryn felt something deep and primal coil within him, a sickening lurch in his stomach that mirrored the first time he had fallen from a cliff as a fledgling—wind roaring beneath his wings, the ground rushing to meet him.

Without thinking, without understanding, Drakaryn spoke.

The syllables of Dragontongue resonated through his mind, ancient and layered, flowing from him like a reflex. He did not form the words; they formed themselves, pulled from the depths of his being. It was instinct—an act of desperation given voice.

And suddenly, Aria did not fall.

The world shifted.

Drakaryn felt it as much as he saw it—a subtle ripple in the air, a change in the pressure of existence itself. Aria, instead of tumbling down the stairs in a chaotic sprawl, was caught by something unseen. Her small body hovered for the briefest moment, cradled by the whisper of air. The sensation that filled Drakaryn's chest was unmistakable: it was the wind beneath his wings, the memory of his first true flight.

Aria drifted downward, slow and weightless, as though the very laws of this fragile human world had bent to accommodate her. She touched down gently on the landing below, sliding in a small, twirling motion until she came to rest on her bottom, her face a picture of confusion.

Drakaryn's mind reeled.

He stared—through her eyes and yet not—as the scene settled back into stillness. Aria blinked, wide-eyed, her small mouth opening in a quiet gasp. She looked up at the stairs, then down at herself, as though unsure how she had escaped unscathed.

What… was that?

The words echoed in Drakaryn's mind, but no answer came. He felt the residual hum of Dragontongue still vibrating faintly through his thoughts, the echoes of his utterance lingering like the last note of a song. He had spoken—at her, to her—and the world had obeyed.

It wasn't supposed to work like that.

Drakaryn had always known the Dragontongue to be a force of power, but its effects had always been tethered to his own world—mana-rich landscapes, living creatures, the threads of vitality that bound all things. It was his domain, his right as a dragon to wield such power.

But this? This was something new.

He had reached into her world, this strange, weak place of wooden floors and human fires, and he had changed it. It wasn't brute force or raw destruction; it was control—delicate, deliberate, and impossibly subtle.

Drakaryn's thoughts spiraled as he tried to make sense of what had just occurred. Was it his connection to Aria that allowed this? Was it her fragility that made the world so susceptible to his influence? Or was it something deeper, something to do with the strange tether that bound them?

Questions piled upon questions, and Drakaryn found himself uncharacteristically rattled. The Dragontongue was not to be taken lightly. He remembered the first time he had spoken it—truly spoken it—how the words had torn through him like molten fire. The power had fractured his mind, splitting his thoughts into chaotic fragments that took days to recover from. The risk had been immense, the pain unimaginable.

And yet here, now, he had spoken without effort, without consequence.

Why?

More troubling still was the question of what impact this would have on Aria. Had she felt it? Had the words of power brushed against her tiny, fragile mind? Would it harm her the way it had once harmed him?

Drakaryn observed her closely, searching for any sign of distress. But Aria only sat there, blinking up at the stairs, her small hands patting the ground as though testing its solidity. Her instructors' voices rose from somewhere nearby—worried calls echoing through the house as they hurried to find her.

She seems… fine, Drakaryn thought, though the unease in his chest refused to settle.

For a long moment, he remained silent, watching as Aria was scooped up by the female instructor, who clutched her close with frantic relief. The melodic tones of her voice were filled with both scolding and comfort, though Aria herself seemed unfazed, her eyes still fixed on the stairs she had miraculously bypassed.

Drakaryn exhaled slowly. What have I done?

His mind raced with possibilities, spiraling into territories he had not dared explore before. If he could influence this world—her world—with the Dragontongue, what else could he do? Could he shape it as he shaped the mana threads of his own? Could he speak words that bent the very laws these creatures lived by?

And what would it mean for Aria?

Drakaryn shifted uneasily, his talons scraping faintly against the stone of his basking rock in the waking world. This was dangerous—he knew that instinctively. The Dragontongue was not meant to be wielded lightly, and he was treading into unknown territory, even for a dragon.

For now, he would say nothing more. He would watch.

But as Drakaryn drifted back into stillness, the memory of the moment lingered in his thoughts like a spark waiting for kindling. The tether between him and Aria was no longer just a mystery; it was a door—a door he had just learned to open.

And doors, once opened, rarely stayed shut.